


Falling Star

by silkinsilence



Series: Moicy Week 2019 [7]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Moicy Week, Moicy Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21841159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkinsilence/pseuds/silkinsilence
Summary: ‍Angela and Moira have both tried their best to leave the past behind even as it stubbornly binds them both.‍
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Series: Moicy Week 2019 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566913
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	Falling Star

**Author's Note:**

> For Moicy Week Day 7: Christmas Day/New Year's Eve.

“Hello?”

She didn’t recognize the number, but most of the calls she got these days were like that. She liked to keep a slim address book. Colleagues remained acquaintances, and when her jobs finished she moved on. She wore her solitude like armor, but somehow all the time in the world didn’t make it easier to bear the weight.

A call on New Year’s Eve wasn’t that unusual in her line of work, and it wasn’t as if she was doing anything to celebrate the holiday anyway.

“Hello, Angela,” an accented voice responded from the other end of the line.

She knew that voice. She didn’t think she’d ever stop knowing that voice. She’d be on her deathbed and still paralyzed by memories. Sometimes they felt like the only thing that made her existence bearable; sometimes they tore her apart from the inside.

“What,” she said wearily. Outside, a firecracker went off, and children screamed in laughter.

“This is—”

“I know who it is.”

Maybe that was an embarrassing confession, but she didn’t care. She had no energy for games. Or so she felt, but she hadn’t yet hung up, even though to Moira everything seemed to be a game.

“Oh, well, that makes things easier, doesn’t it?”

She sounded smooth and disaffected. She sounded like she had always sounded, like Angela’s state was at worst an inconvenience or at best a toy with which to be tampered for her own amusement.

“Why are you calling me?”

Angela wandered to the window of her kitchen. Her studio apartment was on the fourteenth floor, and Lozärn was a sea of yellow lights that abruptly disappeared at the lake. She had gone to college in this city, and been recruited to Overwatch from this city, and though she continued to travel around the world, she kept coming back. She came back as if looking for something she had lost, though she knew she had never really had it in the first place.

“I wanted to know how you were doing. To ensure you hadn’t been offed in a field hospital.”

This felt so familiar, but Angela felt different. She lacked the spirit to retort. Moira had won, hadn’t she? All of her misdeeds and the stains on her hands didn’t matter in the end. She was Minister, and Angela was fading fast.

“You could set up an alert online for my obituary.”

“Oh, do you already know who would write it?”

“A reporter, I assume.”

“You sell yourself short. I can think of a host of people who would be eager to write it. Torbjörn; you were always close with him. Winston. Oxton.”

The thoughts that rose in her as Moira listed the names burned like a tiny flame inside Angela, warm and bright. But they were all people she’d cut off back then, all ties she’d severed. Who from her new life would remember Angela Ziegler?

“Would you write it?” she asked, and suddenly the city lights out the window were blurring. She wanted to take it back, like she’d always wanted to take everything of their affair back, but

Moira

hung

on

to the balcony railing of her penthouse with one hand, swaying back and forth to feel the wind in her hair and against her exposed skin. She felt exhilarated, probably inappropriately so, given Angela’s apparent dourness. But Angela hadn’t hung up on her. No longer was she trapped ten years in the past, desperate like a caged animal, trapped in the house of her youth and desperately calling a disconnected number.

And the question Angela had asked sent an undeniable warmth through her.

“Me? Angela, I wouldn’t have thought you were the type to want me telling the public how you taste.”

Angela made a noise of spluttering indignation, and Moira smiled to herself. She knew that such a sound would inevitably be accompanied by a blush, and then fervent denials, and then probably an escalation.

But they hadn’t spoken in ten years, and there was a world between them, and Angela’s denials never came. Moira missed them.

If they saw each other, could things be different? Could she masquerade as an ordinary person, as a real human being instead of whatever she really was? Could she pretend she didn’t spend weekends moonlighting for Talon and didn’t have her hands drenched in more blood than she’d even seen during Blackwatch?

Stupid, pointless thoughts, the same ones that had driven her to call in the first place. Even her fantasies ended with them fighting. She thought about Angela precisely because she could not have her. She wanted her because she knew it would always end badly.

“If I was dead, it wouldn’t matter, would it?” Angela was saying. “You could write whatever you wanted. I doubt anyone would have much interest in my obituary anyway. Those days are over.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” Moira murmured, and half meant it.

Angela audibly sighed.

“Moira, why did you call?”

_I wanted to imagine._

_I wanted to hear your voice._

_I wanted to know you were still out there, somewhere._

_I wanted to lord it over you, everything you had once and I have now._

She closed her eyes on her city and wondered if they would ever see each other again. She wasn’t sure she even hoped they did. Angela, like Overwatch, felt like a relic of her past, yet also a part she couldn’t cut away. She had called, hadn’t she? She kept coming back in spite of herself.

“Happy New Year, Angela,” she said, as if it was an answer.

Angela sighed again.

“Happy New Year,” she said. The connection between them remained, a faint hint of static in the background, for another few seconds. They seemed to stretch out longer and longer, as if Moira was suddenly watching her life in slow motion, knowing that this feeling was one she needed to savor.

Then Angela hung up.

**Author's Note:**

> That concludes my Moicy week fics. Thank you to everyone for reading, and please leave comments letting me know what you thought!


End file.
